Day of the Dead
by CeCe Away
Summary: What is it about November Second? Hurt!Sam Anxious!Dean Heroic/Anxious!John
1. Chapter 1

**I've always thought it was interesting that the writers choose November 2****nd**** as THE fateful day everything seemed to start for the Winchesters. Okay, we know it all started long before that, but November 2****nd****, Day of the Dead. Interesting choice. **

**This story begins on November 1****st****, so I'm posting it on, well, November 1****st****. I'll try and post with the same timeline as the story, just 14 years off. **

**Coupla things: This is set in 1996 so even though cell phones were invented, they were huge and expensive without a lot of network choices, nor widely used by the public. It wasn't until 1997 when radioshack started selling sprint pcs cell phones, and most of the general public still widely didn't start using them until 1998 or closer to 2001 really. So for this fic, I'm assuming that the Winchesters, like most people, did not have cell phones available. **

**2****nd: ****I happened to be watching **_**Hook Man**_** from Season One while writing this and noticed Dean explaining the salt rounds to Sam. Apparently John and Dean invented the use of salt rounds while Sam was at Stanford – so no shooting ghosts with shotguns in this earlier fic either, which would have made it so much easier. Ah, well. I'm a stickler. **

**Oh yeah: Usual Disclaimer: Just havin fun. Own nothing.**

Day of the Dead.

The flowers were everywhere. Bright orange marigolds strung along tops of fences and bursting from pots grouped on porches and storefronts like little shrines. The moppy-headed thirteen-year-old stopped at one display and frowned at the brightly decorated sugar skulls sitting in prominence among the cheerful blossoms.

San Miguel, Arizona was vibrant with energy, even on the outskirts of town where their current motel squatted. The streets were alive with celebrants. The Winchesters had never taken a hunt this close to the Mexican border at this time of year. They wouldn't be here now if Caleb hadn't called in a panic about a Chupacabra who had dragged two children off after it'd taken a bite out of Caleb's side. With Caleb in the hospital, even though the Winchesters were heading north, they were still the closest hunters available to get to those children quickly enough.

John was adamant about not taking Sam on this one and Sam remained quiet, knowing it was no use complaining. This time of year Dad always got a little more edgy, a lot more worried and protective.

Before Dad and Dean left, John's large palm curled around Sam's shoulder. "Remember to keep the wards up, the salt lines unbroken. This shouldn't take long, we'll be back before . . ." He left the rest unspoken.

Watching from across the Impala's roof, Dean's jaw clenched. He'd grown more tense with each mile headed southward. Sam had nodded, not wanting to talk about it either. But days passed and John and Dean hadn't made it back yet, and Sam had worried until he got the call from Dean. They were okay. The kids were okay, taken back to their parents, but the little toothy monster had gotten away and they were heading back out to track it. "Hopefully only another day," Dean had said. "Um, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Maybe, uh . . . just try and stay inside tomorrow. You know, watch the tube."

"Okay, yeah." Sam shifted from one foot to the other. He felt awkward. Neither brother knew what to say after that. He heard his father in the background, reminding Dean to tell Sam to double check the wards again.

But he didn't want to stay inside. So he walked around the area, looking at all the private altars and dolls that looked like skeletons in wedding attire. Though the excited people walking around thrummed with energy, Sam rode along a current of sadness. The entire city was celebrating. From a flyer, he knew that at midnight there would be a parade of sorts, the All Souls' Procession, with people wearing skeleton masks to honor the dead and carrying urns with prayers written on slips of paper that they would burn. Sam rubbed his chest, feeling hollow inside, even though he'd just had a sandwich. Sam watched a couple walk by, laughing, enjoying themselves and Sam wondered how they could be so happy. Of course they couldn't know the Mexican holiday came on the most painful day for the Winchester men.

_Día de los Muertos. _November Second. Day of the Dead.

The day Mary Winchester burned above the crib of her six-month-old son.

For the Winchesters, it would never be a night for celebration.

Yet . . . Sam's brows pulled together. Maybe, honoring family members who died wasn't a bad thing. Certainly, holding everything in in silence, taking sideways glances at each other like his father and brother did every time November rolled around, didn't do anything to fill the hole in his heart left gaping where memories of his mother should be.

Sam walked past a little flower stand. He read the sign above the blooms. _Flor de Muerto. _Flower of the Dead. Sam knew their scent was meant to attract souls so they would hear the prayers and the comments of the living. On a whim, Sam turned back and bought a small bouquet of marigolds.

He walked down the streets and into the little park close to the motel and sat at a picnic table. It was quiet here. The southwestern landscaping scheme of the park with mostly pebbled pathways wandering around sagebrush and tall sequoias was pretty, peaceful, empty of partygoers. The early evening was still warm so Sam laid his little bouquet on the table and shrugged out of his gray hoodie, placing it beside him on the bench. He picked up one of the marigolds, rolling the stem in his fingers and tried to come up with happy memories of his mother, except he didn't have any, not really. All he had were borrowed memories from Dean, images of her that his mind did the best to fill in, but they weren't real.

"Sam."

He nearly jumped off the bench, rapping his knee on the underside of the table. His gaze jerked up to a woman, standing on the other side of the table, hands folded neatly together as she stared at him. She had dark sad eyes and long blond hair. Her pale blue sundress seemed to float around her legs in a breeze that didn't really exist.

"Hello," he said hesitantly, alarmed that she knew his name. "Can I help you?"

She smiled sadly. "Sammy, don't you know me?" She took a step forward.

Turning sideways, Sam swung his legs out from under the table. He shook his head.

The woman nodded her head forward. "You brought me flowers, sweetheart."

"But . . ." He looked at her through lowered eyes. He'd only seen one or two pictures of his mom. They didn't have many, and even though there were similarities, he didn't think this woman . . . yet . . . seeing someone fully was different than viewing them on the flat dimension of an old photograph, right? "Mom?"

Her smile blossomed and Sam's heart stuttered to a slow crawl. "Oh, Sam, I've missed you. I've missed so much of your life."

"But . . ." Still not convinced, Sam stood, shifted backwards, keeping the table between them. "How are you here?"

Her gaze shifted to the marigolds. "_Día de los Muertos_. The veil is thin on this night." Her head tilted, making her hair sway. "You were thinking of me. I felt it."

Sam's throat grew tight. His vision grew hazy from a sudden press of tears. He wiped them away. "Is this real? Are you real? You're . . . Mary Winchester?"

She nodded. "Oh, Sam. I'm your mother. I really am and I've missed you, baby." She came around the table, held out her hand. "Will you walk with me? Just for this one night. Will you walk with me?"

Sam shifted back, afraid. His mom let her hand drop, disappointment and sadness creasing her face. Sam couldn't bear it. All the hurt and loneliness of being a motherless child rushed to the surface. Just for this one night, he could have his mother. He swallowed and stepped toward her.

Her smile was so beautiful it made something pull painfully in his chest. When she took his hand, a cool tingly touch, he let her lead him onto one of the pathways into the darkening evening.

#

"Motel sweet motel," Dean muttered as his dad swung the Chevy into the parking place. "I could sleep for a week."

John shut off the rumbling engine and glanced over. "You deserve it, sport. You did well. We'll both have to make do with one night though. I want to be out of here before first light."

Dean couldn't agree more. Although they'd come in through the back streets, the music and the merriment of what the citizens of San Miguel celebrated was a little hard to take when the day represented so much more for their family, for the life they'd lost, for their own lives that had been irrevocably changed on that evening. With the festivities continuing on through the next two days, lack of sleep would be well worth putting Arizona behind them.

Dean swung the car door open, stilling upon hearing the music filtering from a few blocks away. He tried to make light of it with a quip. "I hope Sam's not sprawled across the whole bed again. I got bruises from his flopping limps last time, but I'm not taking the couch. It's lumpy."

John chuckled, sliding the key into the doorknob. "Kid's getting tall."

"And knobby." Dean pushed inside behind his dad. Complaining aside, he was happy to get back to Sam, even if the kid was hogging up all the bed space. Besides, getting him to move to the couch would give him a good excuse to wake Sam up and see his younger sibling's face light up at their return. That never got old.

Except . . . John and Dean just stood there. Sam was not sprawled out on the bed. In fact both beds were neatly made. In three quick strides, John was at the bathroom, pushing open the door. The scowl stamping his features when he turned told Dean that Sam wasn't in there either.

Dean glanced at his watch. Ten-fifty.

"Maybe he went out to grab a bite," Dean offered hopefully. "You know how Sam is, he gets caught up in things and forgets to eat until he's really hungry."

Frowning, John nodded. His gaze flicked toward the little table, absent of any books Sam might have been going through. "Check the salt lines."

Dean flinched. "You don't think something got in here?"

"No." John shrugged a hand through his dark hair. "I just want to make sure."

"Yeah. Okay." Dean checked the door while John went to the window. His father's features had already lost that relaxed-hunt-went-well look and were hardening, shifting into focused hunter mode, spurring a whisper of icy breath to trickle down Dean's spine.

John's fists came to rest against his hips, elbows out to his sides like stiff wings, the old man's stance when he was mulling over a problem . . . or worried. "Nothing's been disturbed." The weight of his gaze fell on Dean. "You told Sam to stay inside today?"

"Yes, Sir," Dean was quick to answer, then added, " Well, it was more like a suggestion." Dean held himself still, prepared for all that tension vibrating beneath his dad's skin to bark out at him, but John only nodded. His hands slid from his hips, lowered to his sides as he let a weary sigh escape.

"I'm sorry," Dean said.

John wiped a hand down his face. For a moment it seemed to Dean as though the motion forged new worry lines into his dad's forehead. "It's okay, Dean. Your brother shouldn't have to be on lock-down while we're gone. It's just . . . on this day—"

"Yeah, I know," Dean interrupted, not wanting to go there. Not now, not when they didn't know where Sam was. "Dad, he's probably just down the street. You know how curious Sam gets about, well, about everything." John's tight lips quirked up into a hint of a grin at that. Encouraged, Dean went on. "I'll bet Sam's over at that little area with all the pretty painted girlie-type shops, just standing on the sidewalk with everyone else in this town, waiting for that weird-ass parade to go by."

John nodded, the worry visibly leaching with a roll of his stiff shoulders. "All right, let's go get your brother. But Dean . . ."

Half-way to the door, Dean stopped at the authoritative edge of John Winchester's this-still-is-a-hunt tone. "This is the Day of the Dead. You know what that means."

"Yes, Sir." Dean nodded. Salt.

#

"What is this place?" Sam looked at the little broken down shack within the dip of a hill. He'd walked with the spirit for a little less than an hour, moving into wilderness at the edge of the park. Arizona was like that, the cities and towns small pockets of civilization within vast swathes of desert and sagebrush. The moon gave enough light to navigate his way, but still Sam wished for his flashlight, if for nothing else than to warn away snakes and scorpions. When the first of the stars came out, he'd quickly oriented himself the way Dad taught him to. He wasn't worried about getting lost out here, besides the lights from town and the music that echoed loudly out in the quiet of the hills were an easy beacon to guide him back.

He turned his attention back to the shack, if it could be called that. There was really only two walls left and half of a third. Except for one corner of the roof, the tilting wooden frame was open to the sky. His mom's cold whispery fingers tugged on his, drawing him down into the ravine until they stood within the shell of what once was possibly someone's home. Maybe a hunter's shed?

Sam tried again. "Why did you bring me here?"

The ghost shrugged. "It's just a place." She sat down on the rotted floor and patted the space beside her. "It's peaceful here. We can talk. Be together, just you and I. Oh, Sam honey, tell me everything, all your hopes and dreams. I've missed so much."

_Hopes and dreams. _Sam's heart did a little flip. He frowned_. _He had hopes. Of going someplace permanent. Digging in roots so secure, nothing could tear him away. A house, a real house that was his, always would stand. For that to be possible he knew it meant a job, a real job, which meant getting good grades in school. He was already working hard to achieve that . . . He stopped himself, lowered to the floor and looked into those beautiful brown eyes, wishing so badly that he could tell her all of that, but some things are too deep for words.

"Why am I here?" he asked again.

"Because I missed you."

He held up a hand. "Stop. I know you're not my mother."

"But, Sam . . ."

"Please. Don't pretend anymore. It hurts me."

Her head lowered. The ends of her long blond hair dipped. Sam ached to reach out and roll a lock between his fingers, even knowing that it wasn't real, wouldn't really be like touching something of his mom anyway.

She looked at him through lowered lashes. "If you know that, why did you come with me?"

Sam kept his hands on his knees. "Because you need help."

TBC

**I'm just going to throw this plot bunny out there: JOIN ME. Write your own November 2****nd ****fic . Let's slam the actual day with them!**


	2. Chapter 2

Day of the Dead Chapter 2

Dean pushed through the crowd, searching, a persistent bubble of fear expanding in his gut. Sam wasn't anywhere. Costumed people moved down the street, carrying bowls with little fires while others dropped little pieces of paper into the flames. Doubling back, Dean made his way across the crowded street, skimming through the tail end of the All Souls' Parade. Another idiot in a skeleton mask got in his face, shrieking and waving his hands. Dean's fingers wrapped around the Glock inside his jacket. He swore to God the next clown that did that was gonna get a gut full of iron.

He spotted his father easily. Hell, just the controlled posture and nervous energy seeping off the man set him apart from the crowd. He was on the opposite sidewalk, gaze scanning every face.

The dark head snapped up as soon as John spotted Dean. "Anything?"

Dean shook his head. "He's not on the street. I looked in all the shops, even the back rooms and bathrooms."

A muscle in John's jaw twitched. He nodded. "All right. We keep looking. I want you to head back toward the motel, but take a different route this time. I'm going the opposite way up the street a bit."

Dean nodded. "What if he's at the motel? Should I come get you?"

"No." John's answer was swift. "Just stay there. I don't want either of you out of that room tonight again. I'll be there after I check a few more places." His features softened. "I hope you're right, son. I hope Sam's there and we just crossed paths somehow."

Dean's throat was tight. "What if he's not?"

"Then wait for me. We'll regroup and go from there. "

#

"I don't need help, Sam," the spirit insisted. "I'm your mother. I just want to be here for you. Don't you need a mother? I could be that for you."

Sam shook his head.

She reached over and took his hands. Coldness leaked into his skin where she touched. "You need me. You called for me."

"I didn't call for you. I didn't even call for my mom. I just . . ." He shrugged. "I just was thinking about her."

"But I came," she pleaded. "I can be your mother."

"You came because you need help."

She stiffened. Her form flickered out for a moment, before settling again.

"It's the Day of the Dead. I know it's a time when spirits can pierce the veil." Sam's face scrunched as his mind worked to reason it all out. "I don't understand why, but maybe it has to do with all the energy that gets focused around here when everyone thinks about their deceased relatives, like a huge collective summoning . . . except you came to me. When all the other spirits probably sought out their own family members, you came to me so you must not have anyone to go to. Is that it? Is your family gone? I can help you. I can help you move on."

"You will pour salt on my bones? Burn my remains?" She was angry. Her fingers dug into the backs of his hands.

"If I need to." He tried to pull out of her grip. "Or I can help you move on on your own. Help you resolve unfinished business." That was a theory his dad told him once. He wasn't sure that would work, but it was worth a try.

Her hands slipped from his. "You would really help me?"

Sam nodded.

Her shoulders slumped. "I shouldn't have brought you here." She began sparking again, sputtering in and out of view like a television with bad reception. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought you here, but he makes me, he makes me."

That didn't sound good. A chill swept across Sam's skin, tiny pinpricks signaling danger. "Who? Who made you?"

"Him. De-Diego. The man who murdered me." With the sudden confession, the spirit's face changed, blinking into a young Hispanic woman. The loose blond hair shifted into a long dark braid.

Sam leaned forward. It was all starting to make a kind of sense to him now. "You're trapped here, aren't you?"

She nodded rapidly. Liquid brown eyes searched his as her hands clamped over her mouth to hold back a sob.

Sam patted her elbow. It felt like the right thing to do. "Your family doesn't know what happened to you, do they?"

"No. I'm lost. They don't know where I am."

Sam nodded, trying to speak as calmly as he could so she wouldn't just disappear on him. "Do you know where your body is?"

She went stiff. Her gaze shot over toward the outside corner of the shack.

Sam stood, went over there. The ground was uneven, flattened in places. He'd spent enough time in ancient cemeteries to know that before the more modern use of cement liners came into practice to hold the dirt off the caskets, eventually gravity took over and the heavy soil squashed casket and bones, leaving rectangular depressions on the ground. By the looks of it, there was more than one body buried here. Not rectangular. No caskets. Unmarked and forgotten. Lost.

Anger flared through Sam, a quick flash, stronger than he'd ever felt before for this, this Diego. Murderer. He tamped it down, let the anger carry to his curling fists while he tried to keep it out of his voice, off his features. He turned to the ghost. "Tell me your name. And your family's name. I'll find them. I'll tell them where your . . . where you are. Then you can have peace." All the victims could have peace because the first thing he was going to do when he got back to the motel was give the police an anonymous tip.

Shaking her head, she backed away, her slight form started fading.

"No!" Sam reached for her as if he could hold a spirit. "Please, I can help you."

"Why would you do that when I brought you here to . . ."

He tilted his head. "Brought me here to . . . what?"

She buried her face behind her hands, shoulders shaking as she began to sob. "To take my place."

A jolt lanced down Sam's spine.

The spirit flung her hands away. "Diego hurts me. He murders me. Every night. Always. But on _Día de los Muertos_ when I can find someone else . . ." She started sobbing again. "I just want an escape, just for one night. You can't blame me for that. You can't blame me."

Sam stood stock-still, letting his mind absorb the horror of what she was telling him. He glanced at all the flattened graves and felt his stomach flip sideways, forcing all its contents up into his throat.

"Your name. I can help you." He stepped closer. "I promise. This can all stop."

"Why?" She disappeared, and then reappeared behind him, standing over the uneven burial ground. "Why would you help me?"

Sam spun around. "Because . . ." He really didn't know what to say. "Because you didn't deserve to be murdered. You didn't deserve this. And your family, they deserve to know what happened to you." Instantly the thought of Dean and their dad not knowing if something happened to him slammed into his gut and he regretted coming out here alone. It wasn't smart.

"But he won't let me go. He'll never let me go."

"My family, we'll take care of Diego too." Sam's chin lifted. He suddenly felt very proud of being a Winchester. "It's what we do. We'll take care of you."

In a flash she was right next to him. "My name is Aimara Medina Ruiz. My husband is—was—" A tear spilled down her cheek. "Renau Ruiz from Tuscon."

A low growl tingled across the quiet air. Aimara's eyes widened. She spoke faster. "I disappeared June twenty-second, nineteen eighty-seven. You must go. Hurry." She pushed on his chest to get him moving. "You . . . you will tell him?"

Sam nodded. "I promise." Something vibrated across the air, reeking of dark emotion.

"Go then. He is coming. Diego . . ."

She didn't have to tell him twice. Sam ran from the shack, started climbing the small knoll.

Aimara's voice called behind him. "Sam, if I would have had a chance to have a child . . ." He glanced back. The moonlight cast her sorrowful smile in a silver glow. "I would have been a good mother."

Sam nodded once, then swung around to resume climbing and found himself staring into a broad chest covered in a dirty mechanic's work shirt, a red name patch over the pocket. Diego. Meaty palms clamped onto Sam's head, shooting a voltage of liquid pulsing pain through every nerve ending. His muscles locked up, twitching, while his mind was dragged into memories not his own. He felt Aimara. He _was_ Aimara. _Bones breaking. Clothing torn away. Slapped. Restrained. Strangling. Choking. Can't breathe. Can't breathe. No, I'm Sam. I'm Sam. Dad! Dean!_

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

Day of the Dead Chapter 3

Dean's anxiety grew with each footstep. The beam of his flashlight fanned back and forth across the quiet street. _Come on, Sam. Where are you?_ He passed the little park on one side of the street, a row of adobe style houses on the other side. The park was small and open with very little trees or bushes. It had a little play area that had one slide and a swing set, and two or three picnic tables scattered about. There wasn't really any place to hide anything—or anyone. He'd swept the flashlight beam across the area and walked on, anxious to get off this wrong street and get back to the motel. Sam had to be back there by now and Dean wanted to be the first one to tear into him over this little disappearing stunt.

He was about to head around the corner house and go onto the next street when a niggling little feeling made him turn around and flash the beam down the road once more at the same time he pulled his Glock out. Bright eyes reflected in the light, watching him. Stupid cat.

Swinging back around, his flashlight cast a wide beam and Dean froze, catching sight of something. He jerked the flashlight back, playing it over one of the picnic tables. Something lumpy was on the bench and he had a feeling he knew what it was.

He ran into the park, over the soft desert soil, and scooped the hoodie off the bench. _No no no no, dammit Sam._ His fingers curled into the worn fabric, the evidence that something was very wrong. He frowned at the little orange bundle of marigolds on the table, knowing what they were used for. The entire town was covered in the blooms. Dean's fear meter kicked up a notch. _Aw, Sammy, what were you doing?_

_Okay, okay, I'm gonna find you._ Dean cast the light out into the night, far into the quiet wilderness where it bounced off the little hills. Ah, hell, if his brother went off that way . . . Clenching down on the low throb in his gut that that thought brought, Dean crouched down, balancing the handle of his gun on his knee while he cast the light over the ground, searching for tracks. The sole patterns of Sam's sneakers were easy to pick out. Dean followed the tracks away from the table where the kid had backed up, shuffled around in the dirt, then moved forward—walking straight—

Shit! A woman appeared in front of him, just floated out of thin air, not two inches away. Acting on pure instinct, Dean let himself roll back onto his butt and fired.

#

John was coming back down the crowded street, shards of apprehension slicing at his chest. It was after midnight and Sam was missing. His youngest child was missing on The Day of the Dead, the day Mary died when something had come after their family. John wasn't going to lose his boy to this gawd-forsaken day too. Not while he had a breath left in his body.

He angled his broad shoulders sideways to get past a strolling mariachi band when the blast of a distant shot echoed across the air. Attuned, John would recognize the sound anywhere, even if the people around him only registered the melody of joyful trumpets and guitars. _Dean._

John took off like a bullet, jostling his way through the crowd, ignoring angry grumbles in his wake as he left the center of activity behind to burst into the quiet neighborhood streets. The motel was straight ahead, but he'd told Dean to take one of the roundabout ways to look for his brother. He knew the left road ended up toward a park while the right led into a seedier part of town.

_Come on, Dean, let me know where you are, buddy._ Making a quick decision, John ran to the right.

And an apparition pulsed out of the air, blocking his way. A young Hispanic woman.

John had the salt palmed with his next inhalation.

"No! Please. _Por favor_. Don't throw that. I came to help."

John's fingers remained curled around the canister. "Where's my son?"

"Please. He promised you would help me."

John's brow arched. He didn't want to trust her, but damn if that didn't sound like something Sam would promise. And at this point, John was willing to hedge all bets. "All right. First my son." He didn't know exactly what Sam had promised her or if a promise had even been made, but if it meant getting to his youngest, John was more than ready to back his child's play.

"I'll take you to him." The spirit winked out of existence.

"Son of a—"

"This way," she called from the corner leading into the left street.

John ran after her and she disappeared again, reappearing farther ahead down the road. Perfect. He was playing follow the leap-frogging ghost. _Hang on, sons. I'm coming_.

#

Dean couldn't wait for his dad. He'd picked up Sam's trail and he wasn't about to wait. But he couldn't be stupid either and make things worse. Scooping up several rocks on the run, Dean sped back to the street. Right next to the sidewalk where John couldn't miss it, Dean hurriedly piled the rocks on top of each other, then placed a long stone near the base to mark the direction he was headed in. As a final touch he placed one pebble on top. One for Dean. Two pebbles if the marker had been left by Sam. It was the best he could do to guide his dad. He wasn't waiting any longer.

Tracking his brother in the dark was difficult, but not impossible, and Sam's prints were still fresh, easy to follow. Actually the only prints out this way. As Dean walked farther away from town, his uneasiness grew. Why the hell had Sammy come out here on his own? Dean pulled out his pouch of rock salt, knowing the answer to that. If that spirit back at the park was any indication of what was going on, Sam wasn't exactly alone and that made all sorts of things skitter around inside Dean's gut.

He raced up another hill, feeling every muscle in his thighs working. The usual sounds of nature were eerily quiet as laughter and music from town carried oddly loud on the air.

Dean came over the hill's cusp and his heart jerked painfully in his chest.

Not two yards away from him, lower on the incline was Sam. Held upright by the beefy paws of some Neanderthal sparking ghost clamped around his head. Dean could clearly see Sam was on the losing end. His toes angled downward, dragging in the desert sand. His arms were hanging, yet there was nothing limp about him. The kid's muscles were coiled tight, jerking in tiny rhythmic spasms. His eyes were nearly rolled up inside his sockets and his mouth gaped in a soundless scream.

Dean moved in an eruption of fury. "Hey, Pancho Villa!" Running headlong, he flung a fistful of salt out at the same moment he crashed through the dispersing ghost, slamming into Sam instead, carrying them both downhill in a snarl of arms and legs. They hit the bottom with a jolt.

Where Sam's screams had been silent before, he was now shrilling at the highest decimal point of his young lungs, back arching off the ground, the back of his head digging into the ground.

Dean went to push himself up off his stomach and felt the give in his arm, instantly recognizing he'd broken it. Pulling it in to his body, he rolled the other way to get to his knees and lean over his brother.

"Sam! Sammy!" With his good arm, Dean grasped onto Sam's shoulder, trying to hold him still, but the kid wasn't responding. His eyes were huge, dilated. And the screams . . . Dean had never heard such a piercing wounded sound come out of his brother . . . and the scream wasn't letting up. Whatever had a hold of Sam scared the hell out of Dean.

TBC

Other November 2nd Stories you might like:

_Child's Intuition_ written by cherry619

_Promise_ written by Llini Guisli

_November Second_ written by Bayre


	4. Chapter 4

Day of the Dead Chapter 4

John barely glanced at Dean's rock marker, noting it pointed in the same direction the spirit had just been in. _Good boy, Dean_. He felt the little hitch of pride as his boots kicked up sand behind him as he flew across the little park. The woman appeared in the distance, blue dress glinting in the moonlight, as she waited on top of a small rise.

John raced after her, leaving the park to head out into the desert, tamping down the sudden spike of fear that his youngest had gone out here. He barely had his emotions under control when a soul-shattering cry punctured the night. _Oh, God, Sammy_. John's heart slammed up into his throat at the prolonged agony in his son's scream. It didn't stop, just wavered in and out with inhalations, without a rift in the intensity. John sprinted up the first hill, side-hopping down the other side to race up the next knoll, panic urging him on. What was happening to his son to make him sound like that?

Before he reached the woman at the top of the hill he climbed, she vanished. John plowed over the spot she'd been on and came to an abrupt halt. His boys were down in that ravine near a ramshackle hut, the beam of a flashlight illuminating them in shadow and gilt. Dean was on his knees, desperately trying to hold Sam who was thrashing stiffly on the ground, screaming shrilly enough to make his throat bleed.

John didn't realize he'd been moving, practically sliding down the slope. He just knew he was getting down there to his sons. He slid onto his knees on the other side of Sam, flinging dirt.

"Dad!" Tears spilled down Dean's cheeks even as a flash of relief cracked his devastated features.

John took hold of Sam, dragged him against his chest. His young body was clenched as tight as a fist, bending his spine backwards even within the circle of John's arms. "What happened?"

Dean shook his head. He had to shout over his brother. "A ghost had him. Was doin something to him! I don't know. He had his hands fastened to Sam's head, and Sam was . . ." Dean's chest was moving up and down, too fast. He swallowed, shook his head again. "I flung salt at him. The ghost exploded. Sam and I rolled down the hill, and then Sam started screaming. Dad, I can't make him stop! He won't stop! Somethin's still got a hold of him!"

John reached over to reassure Dean, gripping his arm. At the contact, Dean involuntarily hissed, flinching back.

"Broken?"

Dean nodded. "Think so, but it can wait."

It would have to. John nodded acceptance of that fact. "We'll fix this. Don't worry."

Dean didn't say anything, just stared at his writhing, screaming brother. The veins in Sam's neck and forehead were bulging and even though his voice was giving out, fading into a hoarse rasp, the sound was just as potent. How much more of this could his body take? There was a very real possibility of his thirteen-year-old having a heart attack. They had to get him away from here, figure out what was going on fast. John was tempted to knock Sam out, but feared that might lock him further into the nightmare of whatever was going on.

John shifted, getting his feet underneath him to stand when Dean called out.

John's head snapped up. He caught a glimpse of the woman even as he saw Dean fling out his arm, tossing salt. "Dean, no!"

Too late. The spirit dispersed. Rock salt particles dropped on them, reflecting in the flashlight's glow like crystal raindrops. John curled over Sam's head to shield him, but the salt still splattered them both.

Sam gasped, a long painful shudder and then his coiled body sagged.

John and Dean both stared, barely breathing.

"Oh, God. Of course." John dug into his jacket for his own salt canister. "Whatever's happening is because of a ghost." He poured half the entire contents of his can over Sam's chest, scooped some up and rubbed the salt across the boy's forehead. "Come on, Sammy. Come on, son."

Dean leaned closer, his fingers fanning into his brother's sweaty hair. "Sam, it's time to wake up. I'm gonna kick your scrawny ass if you don't." John smiled at that.

The eyes moved beneath the closed lids. Encouraged, Dean sank his hand farther into the kid's hair. "That's it, come on. Wake up for me. Come on, Sam. You're scarin the crap out of me here."

Dark eyelashes fluttered. Slowly the lids slid open, revealing those mossy colored eyes, so much like his mother's.

The relief was fleeting as the kid's body started tensing again. He cried out, "De . . ."

Dean was practically hovering over Sam. "I'm right here. Sam, it's okay. I'm right here."

"De . . ."

"Come on, Sam." The desperation in Dean's voice stabbed its way into the center of John's heart.

"De . . ." Sam's eyes were huge, frightened, unfocused. It hurt to see that kind of fear in his child's eyes. Sam started flailing around. His hands grasped onto John's arms in a vice-like grip. "De . . . De . . . Diegooooo!" he screamed.

John locked gazes with Dean. "We're getting out of here now."

#

Dean trailed behind his father, holding his injured arm to his chest even as he held the flashlight to light the way in front of his dad. John carried Sam the entire way, up and down the knolls, only stopping long enough to adjust his hold on Sam each time the kid arched too wildly.

His brother was back to screaming, if you could call the raw scratches of sound rasping out of Sam's throat a scream. Dean steeled his nerves against it, clenching his arm more tightly. And when they finally stepped into the parking lot, Dean thought he'd never been more ecstatic to see a motel in his life.

His dad stopped at the door, arms occupied with jerking Sammy. "Can you get to your key?"

"Yeah, Dad, I got it." He had to let go of his arm, fingers twisting into the collar of his shirt to keep his arm up while he dug in his pocket with his other hand.

And the woman in blue appeared, between them and the door.

"No, Dean," John warned. "She helped me find you."

He barely had any salt left anyway, but that didn't stop him from reaching inside his jacket for it.

The woman pointed at Sam. "He promised he'd help me."

"What's wrong with him?" John snarled. "I can't help you if I don't know what's going on. Who's Diego and what is he doing to my son?"

"You have to help me." Her eyes were pleading. "You must free me from Diego first. You cannot help your son. If he stops hurting Sam, Diego will come for me again." She started weeping. "Please let me have one night."

Dean cocked his head. She wasn't making any sense.

John hitched Sam higher in his arms. "Diego murdered you."

Her gaze swept up. She nodded.

"You're forced to relive it over and over, aren't you?" John's voice was quiet.

"_Sí._"

"But somehow, because of _Día de los Muertos_ your murder has been transferred to my boy." The vein in John's forehead stood out. "My son is reliving your murder."

The ghost's chin trembled at the violence underlying John's tone. "_Sí. Yes. All of our deaths."_

"All?" Dean flinched at his dad's sharpness. "How many murders is my son reliving?" John seemed to crumble at that. His shoulders slumped as though Sam's weight finally got to him, but their dad only shifted the kid higher, pulling him closer, and rested his forehead against the sweat-soaked head that was even now rolling against his shoulder.

"Dad!" Dean pointed at the spirit. "This is her fault! She did this to Sammy. I say we burn her bones and make it stop."

A horrified expression crossed the apparition's features and she blinked out.

John shook his head. "She's not doing it. It's Diego." John glared at the door. "He's the one we're gonna salt. But we need to find him."

"Sorry, Dad." Dean unlocked the door, feeling miserable. "You were trying to get the information from her and I blew it."

John carried Sam inside and laid him gently on the closest bed. "It's okay. We're going to find him." Sam's hands scrabbled in the comforter, his body twisting, curling in on himself. The hoarse screams had turned into guttural cries.

John pulled out the large salt canister from the duffle on the floor. "Pack this around him."

Dean immediately began pouring the fine salt granules on his brother. "Can we give him something?"

John was at the phone, punching in numbers. "I'm afraid that might hurt him more, trap him further."

Sam bucked up suddenly, his hands clawing at his throat. Sonsabitch, he looked like he was being strangled and Dean couldn't do a damn thing about it. The hell he couldn't. He poured a generous amount of salt across Sam's neck. Surprisingly it appeared to help. Sam's breathing eased and his hands flopped back to the mattress.

Dean swiped a weary hand down his face. He felt John's presence behind him. "Yeah, Caleb," John spoke in the phone receiver. "I don't care. Check out AMA. Just get your ass out of that hospital bed and get to researching. Diego. No, I don't have a last name. I need this done yesterday. I am calm!" John pulled the receiver away for a moment, closed his eyes. He placed the phone back to his ear. "Just . . . be as quick as you can. Sam's suffering. Yeah, I will. And Caleb, thanks."

John set the phone back in its cradle. A deep weariness seemed to have settled into the creases at the corners of his eyes. A warm hand slipped onto Dean's shoulder and squeezed. "Keep doing what you're doing, son. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Dean stiffened at that. Part of him didn't want his dad to leave him alone with Sam. He didn't know what to do. What if he couldn't bring Sam out of another strangling fit? But Dean understood that John Winchester had to go. His dad had to take out the Big Bad that was doing this to his brother.

His dad must have felt him stiffen because he gave Dean's shoulder another squeeze. "You're doing fine. I wouldn't trust Sam's care to anyone else. You can do this. You good?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded. "I'll take care of him, Dad."

"I know you will. Think you can wrap your arm on your own?"

"Sure."

"Good. I'd do it, but I—"

"Can't spare the time. I know. Don't worry about me."

John sighed. "I will always worry about you. That's my job." He smiled sadly. "But I know you can handle yourself. I'm going over to county records." Which at this late hour meant he was breaking in. He pulled the first aid kit out, placed it on the table where Dean could get to it easier. "We're going to find this SOB and then Caleb and I are going to torch his demented murdering ass."

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Day of the Dead Chapter 5

Dean couldn't take this. He'd rather have his leg chewed off by that Chupacabra than watch his little brother toss around on the bed like that. The mewling gasping noises Sammy made sounded more like a wounded cat than his kid brother.

He'd taken only a few minutes to wrap the ace bandage tightly around his broken arm and then secured it to his side with one of his shirts. It wasn't pretty, but it worked well enough. It was a throbbing ache that he should probably take something for the pain, but he had to stay alert, except he didn't know what to do and it was killing him. Sammy was hurting and Dean was helpless to do a damn thing about it.

He stopped pacing and sat on the side of the bed. "Oh, Sam. Just hang on a little while longer. Dad's . . . he's gonna take care of this. You know Dad, he can fix anything. He'll fix this. He'll fix this." His voice broke. He let his palm slide over the kid's sweat soaked shirt, stopping above Sam's heart. "God, Sammy."

He lifted the washcloth out of the ice bucket filled with water he'd placed on the nightstand and started mopping away the sweat across Sam's brow. And suddenly had an idea. Pouring a handful of salt into the ice bucket, he dipped the cloth in the salt water and began wiping Sam's cheek.

"De . . ." The voice was so soft, so utterly wasted. Dean squeezed his eyes closed against the sound, against the whimper of the murdering ghost's name on his brother's lips.

"Dean," Sam croaked.

The hunter's eyes whipped open. "Sam? You with me?" He dropped the cloth to grasp Sam's lax hand.

"Uhhh."

"It's okay, Sam. No, don't try and talk. We know what you're going through and Dad's gonna fix it. He and Caleb are taking care of it right now, so just try and hang on, okay? Just hang on. Sammy?"

The kid's eyes were barely open. Dean didn't know if he understood him or not until Sam's hand weakly squeezed his.

"Thank God. Sam, I've been rubbing salt water on you. It seems to help, but I wanna get some inside you as well. Do you think you can drink?"

For a moment he thought Sam wouldn't respond until there was finally a little blink. "Okay." Dean ran over to the sink, filled one of the hotel cups and brought it back where he dumped at least a tablespoon's worth of salt into it. Holding Sam up and getting him to drink with one arm broken was going to be a bitch.

"All right, Sammy, I'm gonna slip in behind you." Setting the glass on the nightstand, Dean shifted to the side of Sam's back and then lifted him. Once he got Sam leaning on him, he grabbed the glass and brought it to his weak sibling's lips. "Come on, Sam. You gotta try. Please, just take a sip. One sip." He tilted the cup and was pleased when a little of the liquid got past the lips, though a lot more ran down Sam's chin. Under normal circumstances salt water would have made him gag. "Okay, that's good. You did good." He had no idea if that was going to help or not, but Dean was willing to try anything. At least Sam wasn't screaming or making those hideous noises anymore.

The phone rang, making him jump. Sam's head rolled to the side. Dean patted him and shifted out from underneath to get to the phone on the other side of the bed.

"Dad?"

"Yeah. How's Sam?"

"The salt seems to be helping a little. He actually knew me for a second."

He heard his father's deep exhalation. "That's good. That's real good to hear, son. Keep doing what you're doing. "

"Did you find the bastard's bones?"

"That's why I'm calling. There's five Diegos buried in this town within the last thirty years. Three in one old family plot across town and the two others are buried in the city cemetery. Caleb's taking the family plot while I go to the cemetery. We don't have time to narrow it down any further so we're going to burn all of them. So you just hang in there just a while longer, all right?"

"Okay, Dad, but just hurry." Dean didn't want to jinx it by asking what happens if Diego wasn't one of those five.

"I will. Just as fast as I can dig. This Diego is toast. I'll call when it's done."

#

John hung up the phone inside county records. The moment Dean told him Sam had revived a little his hands started shaking. Holding in the worry and anguish over what was happening to his boy was breaking him down. He couldn't give in to it now so he did what he always did, what his marine training drilled into him—push it aside, get the job done—but damn, if witnessing his own child in the clutches of some dark force didn't blow to hell every ounce of that training.

_Suck it up, Winchester, you got a job to do. _Shoving the papers he'd ripped out of the graveyard layouts into his pocket, John slipped back out through the door he'd picked-locked. He had a score to settle.

#

Resting his aching back against the headboard, Dean sat on the bed beside Sam and pulled the kid up so his head lay on his stomach. Sam's fingers twitched. His head started moving and those damn noises gurgled from his raw throat. Dean grabbed the washcloth, dribbling salt water over his brother's hair, then down his cheek. He'd spongebath Sam all night if he had to.

#

John was working on his second grave. He'd salted the first, sprayed a generous amount of lighter fluid over it, but left it to dig the other grave before lighting it up. He didn't want to draw any attention to an open flame in the cemetery before he could do them both, especially with all the celebrants still out on the street. The two Diegos were buried about ten yards from each other. He'd light one and then run and finish off the second.

So far there hadn't been any stirring on the air, no cold spots, which troubled him. In his experience, ghosts usually made a last ditch effort to stop their bones from being torched. He was counting on one of these being the right grave.

If not, he hoped Caleb had an angry Diego at the family plot. Not that he wished trouble on his friend, but if the right Diego wasn't buried here, a little disturbance for Caleb meant saving Sam. Besides, the hunter could handle it. John stabbed the shovel into the ground. Once he was finished here, he'd head over to Caleb, just to lend a hand.

The shovel struck wood. So close. He used the shovel to scrape away the last remnants of dirt from the coffin, found the latch and lifted the top half of the lid and stared down at the skeleton dressed in his Sunday best.

John poured a generous amount of lighter fluid and salt over the corpse, climbed out of the hole and flicked open his lighter. Taking a bandana out of his pocket he held the material to the little flame, watching it burn good and bright before he dropped the bandana into the coffin and the accelerant whooshed to a hot blaze. "_Hasta luego muchacho_."

He stood quietly for a moment, just listening, his hunter senses alert to every noise, every crackle of flame, any pulse that might slide across the still air. Nothing.

Damn he hoped things weren't so quiet for Caleb.

Turning, John sprinted toward the first grave he'd prepared, pulling the torn paper with the grave plots out. It'd make for excellent kindling. Three steps away from the open grave, John struck his lighter, and . . . He sailed through the air, landing like a punch on his stomach. He felt himself being flipped over to his back, the specter suddenly straddling him, a meaty ghost with large drooping mustaches and greasy hair. The mechanic's name patch declared him as Diego. "_Son of a bitch he was strong!"_ John thought at the same time relief crashed over him. This was the grave! He had the bastard now!

Locking his fists together, John slammed his hands into the spirit's face. Diego's form sputtered and John's arms went on through. _Shit! _John tried to buck him off. _Damn freaking heavy-assed ghost! This ends now!_

Grinning smugly, browning teeth dipping between fleshy lips, Diego latched onto John's head and the hunter screamed. Every muscle in his entire body locked up tight, crackled with energy. _ShitShitShit!_ And although Diego's hands were clamped around his head, John knew they were, he felt them also around his neck, choking, thick fingers burrowing into his windpipe. Then he was kicked, thrown, bones breaking against a wall. No, wait, that wasn't right. He was still flat on his back, the apparition's hands squeezing into his temples.

#

Sam jerked upright and screamed, "Dad!"

It was the loudest sound he'd made in hours, scraping like a blade to a whetstone across his vocal chords and it scared the crap out of Dean. From behind him on the bed, Dean grabbed onto Sammy's arm with his good hand. "Sam, what is it?"

Sam twisted around like he was startled Dean was there. His eyes looked enormous in his flushed face. But he was awake and seemed to be out of Diego's grip and that alone made Dean breathe easier. Dad must have toasted the ghost. They could fix whatever came next.

"It's okay, Sam. You're okay."

But Sam didn't look okay. His mouth opened to say something, but all that came out was a terrible rasp. His hands flew to his throat, his eyes frightened and darting around. Dean knew that look. The kid was about to hyperventilate.

#

A knife plunged into John's gut. He roared against the brutal pain. His already tattered dress was ripped off of him. His painted nails tore into Diego's face. God, no, this was wrong. This wasn't him, not . . . happening . . . to . . . him. I am John Fucking Winchester. He clawed himself away from the memories. Not his. He knew what this was. This was exactly what Diego had been doing to Sam for hours. God-damn ghost had been forcing his son to relive the last moments of every one of his murder victims as though each one gave him a sick perverse pleasure. The bastard was going to end.

John stopped feeling the pain, focused on the anger, let it wash over him with the knowledge that his son, his Sammy, had endured each one of these deaths. Over and over.

Rage fueled him, gave strength to his clenched muscles. Shaking like a loose marble on a conveyer belt, John inched his hand into his jacket, forced his fingers to curl around the salt canister, dragged his thumbnail beneath the lid and felt it open.

"Arrrrghhhh!" Using everything he had, John lifted his arm and shoved the salt into Diego's intangible head. Shrieking, the ghost dispersed in a swirl of light.

#

Sam clutched his head and dropped back on the bed, his eyes nearly rolled up in his head. Back arching, his feet dug into the mattress.

"No no no no!" Dean leaned over him. Why was this happening again? He thought it was over. Panicking, Dean grabbed the ice bucket and dumped the rest of the salt water over Sam.

#

Where the hell is that lighter? John scrambled on all fours, looking for the little square of metal. There. Near the open grave. He lunged up like a runner off the mark only to have his legs dragged out from under him. He landed hard on his stomach. Turning, he kicked out, but Diego was holding tight, climbing up his legs like he was a horizontal ladder. John didn't have time for this. Sam didn't have time for this. Ignoring the ghost, John dug his toes into the soft Arizona dirt and reached. His fingers grazed the lighter. Just . . . another . . . inch.

#

Sam couldn't take much more. _Can't breathe, can't breathe._ His chest hurt, his lungs were collapsing, fading, everything was dark. _Por favor, please, I have a husband. Please don't this_, the woman's voice, not his own, pleaded like it was his own thoughts. _Aimara, I'm Aimara. Por favor, let me go home. Please. Hands were at his throat again. Dad? I want my dad. Dean! Deeeeaaaaaan! I'm Sam. I'm Sam. Not real, not real. Oh, God, it hurts. Can't breathe. Diego. He stabbed me. I'm bleeding . . . _

#

John couldn't take much more. He'd pull every nerve ending in his shoulder before he gave up. Groaning, he stretched just a little bit farther until he reached that damn three dollar lighter, flicked it open and brought it to flame. Grinning like a maniac he tossed that sucker into the hole.

#

Dean couldn't take much more. The salt was nl longer helping. Sam was curled into a fetal position, holding his head, rocking forward and back, those freaking mewling sounds grating his throat. His entire body was tight, jerking, the veins in his neck were bulging. Dean could see, actually see, how rapid his brother's pulse was in the throbbing artery. And he couldn't do a damn thing about it, not a gaddamn thing.

Sam wouldn't even tolerate his touch anymore. Every time Dean reached out to sooth his back or just let him know he was there, Sam skittered away, frightened out of his mind.

"Sammy, it's me." Tears streamed down Dean's cheeks. "Just come on, come back. You can beat this Diego bastard, I know you can. Just hold on."

Sam flung his hand out, reaching. "Deeeeaan," he garbled. At least Dean thought that's what his brother cried out beneath the ruined voice. He grasped Sammy's flailing hand with his own and Sam locked onto him like he was the road to salvation.

His hand tightened once, twice, then Sam stopped rocking altogether. His body went instantly loose, as he spilled sideways onto the mattress. Dean stared at his brother in complete shock. He looked . . . he looked dead.

Dean's heart thudded against his rib cage. One beat. Two beats. Before he flew into action. Check pulse. Check for breathing. Begin CPR. Oh, God, don't let it come to that.

"Sammy!" He pressed his fingers against the damp neck, found a pulse, sagged with relief, watched Sam's chest rise and fall. Thank God, thank God. "Sam." Dean shook the boy's arm. "Sam."

The kid's eyes slid open and blinked up at him. He looked like he'd just come out of the losing end of a fight with a trash compactor, but his gaze, though weary and frightened, was focused on him and that was more than enough for Dean.

Sam tried to talk, but quickly realized he couldn't. His brows pulled together and his chin started to tremble.

"Hey, easy." Dean shifted closer. "I know, I know. It's hurts, but everything's gonna be okay now. C'mere."

That was all the invitation Sam needed. He practically launched himself at Dean, throwing skinning arms around his waist and burying his head against Dean's side. Dean wrapped his unbroken arm around the kid, rubbing his back while Sam shook with silent sobs.

#

That's how John Winchester found his sons. After the damn ghost flamed away, John waited just long enough to make sure the bones were good and toasty. The moment he was satisfied the job was done, he sped back to the motel, his worry ratcheting up by mountains. What if he was too late?

When he slammed open the door and saw Dean sitting on the bed, tears blazing trails down his lean face as he held a weeping and completely wet Sam, all the emotion John had held back broke like a typhoon surging over a sea wall. He didn't say a word, just walked over to his sons, wrapped them both within the safety of his arms and let the sea wall crumble, just let it go. It didn't even bother him when Caleb stepped into the room that the younger hunter was going to get an eyeful of the mighty Winchester sobbing. Didn't bother him a bit.

TBC One more chapter to go . . .


	6. Final

Day of the Dead Chapter 6

They hightailed it out of there before dawn. Not only because several graves had been disturbed, but the Winchesters didn't want to be anywhere near the area for the final day of the _Día de los Muertos _celebration_. _Conveniently_ borrowing _a bedspread and pillows from their motel room, Dean made a comfortable bed in the back seat while John carried Sam out to the car.

The kid had been sleeping off and on for the past two hours, although both John and Dean kept glancing back. When John finally pulled into a gas station and shut off the engine, Sam came awake like he'd just heard a gunshot, his eyes wild, darting around and John felt the tip of an ice pick chip off another piece of his frozen heart.

"Hey, bubby." Dean was already on it, kneeling and leaning over the seat so he could reach Sam's wrist with his brace-covered arm. "We're just at a gas station. Everything's cool. You remember?"

Sam nodded and sagged back into the pillows. His other hand slipped onto his neck and he grimaced.

"Bad?" Angling sideways in the car, John reached over the bench to ruffle Sam's sleep-touseled hair. "There's bound to be a microwave in there. How 'bout I get you some warm milk with honey?"

Sam nodded, trying to stretch his lips into a tight smile that wasn't anywhere near convincing, yet still made a direct hit to John's chest. Such a little thing shouldn't have the power to warm the cold layers of his heart.

Dean patted Sam's arm. "So you want anything else?"

Sam's expression suddenly changed, face collapsing. His fingers locked around Dean's wrist. John didn't know what happened, but apparently Dean did. With that uncanny way of reading each other, Dean got it. He shifted back against the seat. "I'll, um, Dad, I'm tired. I think I'll stay here?" His oldest gazed over at him meaningfully.

Now John understood. Sam was afraid to be left alone. "Yeah, sure, son. You take it easy. I'll be right back." He ruffled Sam's head again for good measure before getting out of the car.

#

A couple hours later, John pulled over again into a trucker's rest stop. He glanced again in the rearview mirror at his boys. The morning light cast a sharp beam across both of his boys' faces. Dean had finally given in to exhaustion. At the last gas station instead of taking his spot in the passenger seat, the seventeen-year-old had slipped in the back with his brother and shifted Sam's pillows, head and shoulders onto his lap. He couldn't be comfortable wedged against the door like that, yet Dean was sleeping like an infant, head flopped sideways where one of the pillows rode up high. Even in the awkward position, John knew Dean slept more peacefully knowing he was near enough to feel the slightest movement from Sam.

John scrubbed a weary palm across his stubbled jaw. He understood Dean's fierce protectiveness well, the same rooted deep within his own soul. He'd risk anything for his sons. He sighed, exhaustion making him a sappy old woman. They were far enough north into the canyonlands to leave any traces of the Mexican holiday behind them. He was beyond tired and should probably stop at the next motel, get some sleep, let his boys rest in a bed, but John couldn't get his mind to stop, couldn't shake the cold sweat seeping from his skin with the feeling of being murdered over and over replaying through his system . . . A tremble rolled through him because he knew, he knew that his son had experienced it far worse, and for far longer than he had . . . and if it was having this effect on him . . . _Aw, Sammy. _

John couldn't stop his tears anymore than he'd been able to stop Sam from becoming Diego's victim. He opened the car door as quietly as he could, which wasn't easy on the squeaky old girl and eased out, closing the door again. He walked over to the nearest picnic table, sat down and cradled his head in his hands. _Oh, Mary, I'm so sorry. I'm screwing up. I really need you on this one._

He jerked when a hand feathered over his arm and looked up into the anguished eyes of his youngest. The kid had moved quietly, getting right up next to him without John knowing.

"Dad?" the tiny voice croaked.

"No, son, don't try to talk yet. Your vocal chords need to rest."

The expressive lips turned down, mirroring the dark eyebrows above. "Gotta call . . ."

John reached over, swallowing Sam's thin wrist within his large hand and drew the kid to sit down beside him. He knew where Sam's thoughts were going. "I'm sorry, Sam, but you know the job. We can't alert anyone. It would cast too much suspicion our way . . . or more likely Caleb's way since he was in the hospital and left the same night. You wouldn't want to do that to Caleb, would you?"

"But . . ." The raspy plea was painful to hear.

"I've been doing this long enough to know that even though an anonymous tip appears innocent, sometimes you get a gung-ho officer and it backfires. You're going to have to trust me on this."

Sam's head lowered, not meeting his father's gaze. "I promised." It was so low and grainy, John barely heard it.

"I'm sorry, son, I really am." John understood keeping promises. But as far as he was concerned, protecting his children superseded any promise Sam made to a ghost. Putting his arm around the young shoulders, John drew Sam into his side and didn't it just break his heart all over again when he felt tiny shudders roll through him.

#

A week later they were back at it, back hunting, getting Sam back in the game, nothing incorporeal yet that could dive into your mind, but a young werewolf, solid and tangible. They'd changed up their usual hunting pattern. Instead of splitting up, coming around their prey from two sides, they stayed together. Even when not on a hunt, Sam grew anxious when Dean or John were not in sight, and truth be told, John didn't want Sam, either of his boys, out of his sight just yet either. Guess they all had a little trauma left over to work through.

They had the werewolf cornered in the alley. They could hear it growling and banging around behind the dumpster. Three guns were raised in readiness. And when Sam stepped forward, John placed a warning hand on Dean's cast, stopping him. Dean glanced up confused until John cocked his chin toward Sam. _He needs this._

Sam moved hunter quiet, lean fluid lines of stealth and for a moment John saw the man his child had the potential to grow into. Sam took up a position at the space between the dumpster and wall, the position John would have picked out himself. The two older hunters trained their weapons on that space, prepared to back the kid's play.

Sam looked over at them, nodded, and then purposefully drew the bottom of his sneaker across the ground. The grating sound carried across the night and the growling behind the dumpster silenced.

John watched the werewolf leap out at his child, all teeth and fury, and every instinct in John's gut told him to fire, but he waited, his Adam's apple jumping with the gorgeous crack of a Beretta going off, followed closely by the bark of Dean's semi-automatic. The beastman thudded to the cement at Sam's feet. Kid didn't even flinch and John's rapidly beating heart swelled with pride.

Dean clapped his brother on the shoulder. "Nice shot, Sammy." But it was John Sam looked over to for approval . His features were tight and wary until John nodded and grinned, gaining him a quick flashing smile from his youngest.

#

John thought killing the werewolf would coax Sam out of whatever dark place Diego had forced on him, you know, take control over your environment, that sort of bull crap, it always worked for him, but apparently Sam was wired so completely differently, the successful hunt had little impact.

Another three days passed and Sam still wasn't talking as much as he had before San Miguel though his voice was back to normal. He threw himself into researching other possible hunts, making Dean go with him to the library where before he'd happily spend an entire day alone among the comfort of books.

But worse of all were the nightmares. The kid tossed and turned, crying out every night. None of them were getting much sleep. John lay in his bed, listening to his youngest whimper while his oldest whispered things that John couldn't quite hear beyond the enraged pounding of his own pulse. This had to stop. He had to fix it, that was his job, but for this, he didn't know how. This wasn't the kind of monster he could salt and torch or blow away with silver-tipped rounds.

_Oh, Mary._ He was fumbling so badly. She'd know what to do. He could really use some help here.

He came in the next morning with coffee and donuts. In the middle of tying his boot, Dean looked up, his gaze going instantly to the white donut bag and he smiled.

"Sammy in the shower?" Which was obvious since John could hear the water running. "I want to leave within the hour."

Dean pulled out a cinnamon cake donut and bit it nearly in two. "Which hunt?" In his research fervor, Sam had actually found three or four probable hunts for them.

"That possible black dog looks like it's doing the most damage." John went to the little table where Sam had been doing his research. He had several notepads and newspaper articles placed in tidy piles for each hunt researched. "It shows the most recent activity so the trail should be warm." He picked up one of the notepads on top of a sketch Sam had drawn of a snarling black dog and began flipping through his son's research.

He stilled after lifting one of the pages to find what looked like a letter underneath.

**_ Mr. Renau Ruiz,_**

**_ You don't know me. I wish I didn't have to tell you this._**

**_ Your wife Aimara Medina is buried one mile northeast of the city park in San Miguel by an old shack. _**

**_ She was killed by a man named Diego who is also dead. I can't tell you anything else or how I know about this. I'm very sorry. _**

**_ I just thought that her family deserved to know what happened to her._**

**_ Aimara was a good person._**

**_ She saved my life._**

The shower turned off in the bathroom and John quickly closed the notebook and put it back onto its pile. Dean looked up at him curiously.

John twisted his lip between his teeth. "You and your brother be ready to go within an hour."

"Okay." Dean's brows lowered. "Where you going?"

"I'll be back."

#

Five hours later, John pulled into a little diner for lunch. Dean and Sam clamored out of the Impala, heading toward the beacon of greasy truck-stop fries and colas.

"Boys." John's call stopped them. "Dean, order us some burgers. To go. Sam, you're with me."

Both his sons eyed him cautiously. Shrugging, Dean turned to get the food while Sam shuffled hesitantly back over to his father, biting his lip and looking at the ground. He was acting the way he did when he thought he was in trouble.

John eyed the payphone on the other side of the gas pumps, near a weathered iron-wrought table and partially torn lawn chairs. Without an explanation he turned on his heel and started walking that way, hearing Sam plodding obediently behind him.

Dropping coins into the slot, John pulled out a crumpled piece of paper he'd written the number down on and began dialing.

With the receiver to his cheek, he turned toward his son. Curious, Sam watched him through the fringe of those too long bangs.

"Yes," John said in a lower tone than usual, making Sam's brows shoot up. "I . . . I got a tip. No, I won't say who this is. Let's just say my ante's come due and I wanna meet my Maker with a clean conscience. Yeah, yeah, that's right. Death bed repentence. Don't believe me if you don't wanna. Just tryin ta make things right."

Sam was leaning in closer, his nose scrunching up at his father's obvious lie.

"Sees, I had a cellmate told me 'bout another fella who killed and buried several people out in San Miguel, Arizona . . ."

Sam's face angled up to look at him fully. His eyes were wide, mouth slightly agape and just like that as John gave the San Miguel police station the location of the graves, his little boy's countenance completely altered into something John could only describe as radiant.

"Dad!" Sam exclaimed the moment John hung up the receiver, in a tone brimming with a happiness John hadn't heard in a long time. "I thought that was too dangerous."

John snaked his palm around the back of Sam's neck. "It is, but a few weeks have gone by and we're far enough away . . . Hopefully the police will be able to identify the bodies, but it's the best we can do. You understand that, right?" He leaned down close. "Families deserve to know what happened to the people they love."

Sam nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Yes, Sir."

John straightened, ruffled Sam's hair. He pulled an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to the boy.

Sam's forehead crinkled as he looked at it. It was already stamped and addressed to a Mr. Renau Ruiz of Tucson, Arizona.

"I believe you know what to do with that," John encouraged.

Sam nodded repeatedly, his lips tight, clenching off emotion he didn't want his father to see.

"Promises should be kept."

"Yes, Sir. Hey, Dad?"

"Sam?" John watched him, wondering what was going on in his youngest's head as Sam shifted from one foot to the other.

Sam's lips twisted, and then all at once he threw his skinny arms around John's waist, pressing his cheek against his chest. John stilled. He couldn't remember the last time Sam had hugged him like this. Years. John closed his eyes, letting the moment soak in. His palm lifted to the back of Sam's head, feeling the soft mop of hair on his skin and the closed off tightness that had become his heart loosened, unraveling like a spool of thread.

"Thanks, Dad," Sammy mumbled against him, and then was gone, running across the parking lot with the envelope clutched in his hand, and for once, John knew he had gotten it right. It wouldn't take away Sam's nightmares and the kid would still have to deal with what Diego had put him through, but killing werewolves and ghouls wasn't what Sam needed to cope with it. His son was better than that. Thinking about other people was Sam's way of dealing so if knowing that what he went through at least gave other families, even spirits like Aimara Ruiz peace, then John would find some way to let Sam write any damn letter he needed to.

He smiled at Dean's confusion as Sam plucked a cola out of his hand, practically dancing around him. Dean stopped in his tracks, seemingly mesmerized by his brother's sudden transformation. Before joining his boys, John pulled a tiny orange marigold from his pocket and placed it on the table. He glanced up into the cloud-tossed sky and whispered, "Thanks, Mary."

Fin


End file.
